World Enough And Time
by samchandler1986
Summary: After the fall of Sunnydale, Faith and Giles struggle to find their place in the new world order. A post-Chosen continuation story, canon compliant up to S7.
1. Prelude

_Let me tell you a story, _the wise man said_. Where does the story start? Perhaps it should start with the birth of the boy: the boy who will become the man; the man who will find his faith and flee and fight and bring about the ruin of countless worlds. _

_But what about the man who begat the boy? The man who tried to mould him and shape him in the brittle iron of his own image, only to see him shatter and break? What about the woman who bore him and bled away__**. **__Does his tale not start with them; their lives, their love?_

_Perhaps we should start with the girl instead, the one whose story stretches like a chain across the centuries. Death heralds her coming and it follows in her wake. The watching men made it a part of her, out in the desert. Are the links that came before not also her tale?_

_Where _can_ a story start, _asked the wise man_, when beginnings are as innumerable as grains of sand in the dry sea? A thousand threads in an infinite tapestry make up the tale. For even the light and the heat of the cataclysm that began the Universe must have an origin. _

_So let us start in the desert. For that is always where gods and monsters seem to be born. Let us start in the glittering playground driven up from the dust and rocks, where human hubris reaches a neon pinnacle. _

_Let's start in Las Vegas. _


	2. Beginnings I

The future starts on the balcony of a casino hotel overlooking the fountains and follies of the sin city. Las Vegas was his suggestion, a place with good trauma hospitals and cheap hotel rooms. He was surprised when she agreed; that it would be a good place for them to rest, recuperate and decide what on earth to do next. The pulsing neon of the Strip seems unreal after the dust of destruction and desert highways, the flat fluorescence of the ER.

Buffy sits beside him. She half hugs herself, as if still resisting pain. Spike. He supposes that sacrifice is still twisting in her gut; a burden like all the others he still wishes he could shoulder for her. He lets the silence between them stretch out, not uncomfortably. His commander and child, not-quite-daughter and no-longer-duty, all wrapped up together.

He knows their journey together is almost at an end.

"So," she says eventually, brittle-bright, "Cleveland, huh?"

The compulsion to explain is one that will never leave him. "Before its destruction, the Council's largest task-force was stationed there. After Sunnydale, it was the most, um, active Hellmouth."

She draws in a deep breath, steeling herself. "There are others too?"

"Yes. They've been… relatively easy to manage in recent years."

"But now the lure of Sunnydale is gone, you're thinking not so much?"

He smiles at her, so achingly proud of his pupil who has learned so much. "I don't know Buffy. No one has ever closed a Hellmouth like this before."

"But your gut feeling is… more badness on the other Hellmouths?"

He shrugs, reaching for his glasses. "Call me a pessimist."

"Pessimist," she says, the grim line of her mouth quirking into something that might one day become a smile. She unknots her limbs, stands and stretches, arching like a cat. The wound through her stomach pulls slightly and she winces at the niggling pain. "Sounds like we have the beginnings of our plan then, don't we?"


	3. Beginnings II

"Now, we should be very careful," he says, "Anything could be hiding out in there—"

His dire warning is cut short by the sound of splintering wood as Faith knocks the door squarely off its hinges.

He sighs as it thumps to the floor, raising a cloud of dust. "Well, there goes our element of surprise."

"Surprises are overrated," Faith shoots back, tightening her grip on her axe. She has been cold and angry since the airport departure lounge; a whole wretched series of painful goodbyes. "I'm ready for a fight. Looking to deal some pain."

"Yes, I can see that." He clicks on his flashlight. "Let's go find some trouble, then."

His torch beam illuminates the banisters of a spiral staircase, leading down into darkness. He finds a switch to his right and gives it an experimental flick. To his surprise the lights blink and buzz into fluorescence, revealing the extent of the Council taskforce's headquarters.

The former warehouse has been thoroughly ransacked. On one side tables and chairs are overturned; a mug of abandoned coffee sole survivor sitting on the countertop of a high-end kitchenette. The other side of the room is a mess of torn gym matting and smashed wooden training aids. A weapons rack stands empty.

"No bodies," states Faith, all business, "And that door was locked."

"Yes, that _is _something of a mystery."

They descend carefully to inspect the scattered detritus. "No blood either," Faith remarks, nonplussed.

"Well, why waste a good meal?" he replies darkly, earning himself a grimace from the Slayer.

"You're thinking vamps?"

"I'm not ruling anything out. More importantly, what are you thinking? What do you sense?"

She rolls her eyes. "Is this _really _a teachable moment? 'Cos I'm _not_ in the mood for—"

The vampire seems to explode out of the wreckage of the vaulting horse, knocking him over in a rush of teeth and mad yellow eyes. For a moment the beast is on him, cadaverous fingers tight around his neck. He brings his knees up, hard, but the thing is crazed with hunger and doesn't seem to feel the blow. Choking, he barely registers the whisper of steel through the air, only realises Faith has swung her axe as the creature explodes into dust.

He spits powdered death and struggles to his elbows, groping for his glasses as Faith stakes a second vampire risen from the debris. His fingers close, not on spectacles but a broken table leg, as the third vampire bears down on him. He only has to hold the stake steady. The force of the creature's own assault drives the wood home and he is showered with dust again.

Faith helps him wordlessly to his feet. He ineffectually tries to pat the vampire out of his clothes as she retrieves his glasses. One of the lenses is smashed and he pockets them ruefully.

"Are you ok?" she asks, slightly shamefaced.

"I will be. Come on. There should be living quarters in the corridor behind this room. We'll make sure they're clear."

* * *

"I don't get it. Just those three vamps, locked in there. No bodies or blood but the place such a wreck. What happened?"

They are attracting stares, he realises, as they walk back to their motel covered in grime. They look out of place on the busy sidewalk, thronged with commuters in business attire. They probably sound it too, with this blood and body talk.

"I think those vampires were training aides. They seemed, um—"

"Unusually stupid, even for vamps?"

"Well, yes. It's not unknown for the Council to train using live targets." _Or for taskforce captains to be such sadists they keep some alive for fun_, he thinks, repressing the freighted memories.

"So, what? The Bringers came, killed everyone, left the bodies to be eaten by the captive vamps and locked up after themselves? Don't sound all that likely."

"No," he agrees, pulling out a motel key as they reach the front door of their building, "I think it means that not all the Council taskforce died. Maybe they all got away, and left the starving vampires locked in there as a nice surprise for any Bringers that arrived."

"We going to look for them?" she asks as he ushers her over the threshold. Before he can answer she exclaims: "Damn! That actually smells _good_!"

He suppresses another sigh, and follows her inside.

Andrew, wearing a striped apron and a proud expression, is waiting for them. "I wasn't sure when you'd be back so I thought I'd just go ahead and make dinner anyway. Plus I was, you know, hungry."

"These look awesome. What are they?" Faith enthusiastically prods at their sizzling meal with a spatula.

"Meatballs in a tomato ragu sauce. I looked the recipe up online and—" Catching Giles expression he hurriedly changes tack, "—and I should serve them now before they go cold, and let you guys finish your conversation."

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. Taskforce survivors. Right." She takes a seat at the kitchen table. "Where do we start looking for them?"

Giles puts himself at the head of the table, pointedly ignoring Andrew's laboured efforts to serve their spaghetti. "We don't. If they're still in Cleveland they'll soon turn up once we get the headquarters up and running."

"You think they'd just leave? Don't sound very Watcher-y, abandoning their post."

He frowns. "Taskforces aren't. They do… did, I suppose… the dirty work. They don't have a reputation for being nice. Or dutiful. Just, um, brutal. Once the Council was obliterated, I doubt they'd feel obligated to stay in a place where they were likely to get killed."

"Huh," Faith skewers a meatball, "I don't know why I'm surprised. Must be going soft in my old age."

Andrew has been watching them in open-mouthed fascination. Giles can only imagine the sort of fanciful narrative being constructed behind those wide eyes. "Were you ever part of a taskforce, Giles?"

He pauses for a moment; something about the way face tightens hinting the question is a shot across his bows. "Briefly." His tone brooks no further discussion.

Andrew, to his credit, lets the matter drop. "Oh cool. Well, when you've finished, I guess I'll do the washing up. And my Watcher homework."

Giles swallows his exasperation at the boy's transparency, his desperate need for praise. Once, a long time ago, he remembers craving the respect of his teachers too. "Yes, you're progressing quite nicely with your Latin," he accedes, "And Faith, you and I can do some calisthenics, if you'd like? I thought you were favouring your dominant side back the warehouse and I have some exercises you can try to balance you out a little."

He is taken aback by the fury that paints itself across her face. For a second her expression is pure scorn, lip curling back in a barely controlled sneer. She draws in a deep breath, fighting her initial rage and regaining a modicum of composure. In a colourless voice she replies: "Sure thing."

He heaves another sigh. Aiming to make her feel included, he has instead made her feel patronised. He must make more allowance for the fragile self-confidence of this damaged Slayer, hiding beneath her brick-thick layer of bravado. _She made an effort then not to bite your head off_, he reminds himself. _So must you_.

He watches her moodily stab at a meatball for a moment, ignoring Andrew's paroxysms of awkwardness on the sidelines of their exchange. Despite averting an apocalypse, he realises, the three of them have still ended up in purgatory.

Perhaps it's all they deserve.


	4. Beginnings III

He is sorting through debris when she returns from her patrol, sitting awkwardly prim on the floor.

"You were successful," he says. It isn't a question. The exhilaration of the kill is written all over her, picked out in sweat and cigarette smoke.

She nods. "Uh-huh. Dusted three." She roots distractedly through the remains of the kitchen cupboards, pulling out a bag of crisps. Seven years with these Americans, and he still can't think of them as chips.

"What?" she asks thickly, catching his distasteful expression.

"Nothing. I mean, if you want to eat hideously over-processed foodstuffs that have as much relationship to their potato ancestry as I do to a chimpanzee I suppose it's none of my business."

"They're just Cheetos," she says, through a mouthful of lurid orange flavouring, "Which, for your information, are corn-based."

"Where did you, uh, dust?"

She swallows. "Not actually that sure. I kinda got a little lost. And then they attacked me when I was trying to figure out where the hell I was. Guess I must have looked out of place." She crumples the now empty bag. "It's a lot more difficult figuring out a city this big. I mean, compared to Sunnydale. Small towns; you take in the cemetery, the local night spot that's popular with the kids and then it's all blue skies, you know?"

"Well, I may have some help on that score. I've been working with Andrew on some of the documents the taskforce left behind. We can work out some patrol routes based on their information, once we piece it back together. And we have our… um, other source…" He hesitates, glancing over to a repaired table, where the infernal device glows an unearthly blue in the gloom.

"You mean the computer? You can say the word, G, and at least _pretend_ to join us here in the twenty-first century."

"Yes, well," he blusters, "I suppose the Google has its uses, given how woefully short of _actual_ information we are right now."

She throws the empty packet with pinpoint accuracy; it lands in the bin he has been piling wood into. "Yeah. Anyway, how was B?"

"I didn't speak to her actually," he says, in far too light a tone. He resumes sorting through the broken pieces of furniture.

"Oh?"

"She was out patrolling. Dawn says everything is in hand."

"And a ton else besides, about how cool and exciting things are in the mother country, I bet." Faith chuckles for a moment, before her face suddenly clouds. "Well, that must suck."

He looks up from his task sharply. "Why would you say that?"

She shrugs, always a movement that seems to come naturally to her. "Kinda figured you'd want to be home, not babysitting here in this crap-pile. Am I wrong?"

There's an edge in her voice, despite the faux-casual tone. He knows she's waiting to hear rejection. "I chose to come to Cleveland," he says carefully, "With you and Andrew."

She sniffs. "Right. You and the psycho-killer brigade."

He shakes his head. "An experienced Slayer for an active Hellmouth. A Watcher who needs more training than Willow, Xander or Dawn in supporting Slayers."

"Uh-huh. Definitely not B punishing us for trying to kill her. Or her boyfriend."

For the first time she strikes a nerve. The piece of wood he is holding clatters noisily to the floor, underscoring the hard look in his eyes. "Those things aren't the same."

"Hey, don't sweat it. Daddies always disapprove of their daughter's dates, right?"

"Faith," he warns. It's almost a growl. "Stop pushing."

Her set jaw-line suggests, for a moment, she's ready for the fight. Instead she lets out a long sigh, visibly forcing herself to relax. "Sorry," she offers, "I don't know why…"

"I do," he says, more soft now himself, "It's alright."

She looks at her hands for a moment, picking at her fingers unthinkingly, before reaching a decision. To his mild surprise she joins him on the floor. "Sorting for stakes?"

"Yes. Seemed wasteful to just throw it all away."

They share a moment of quiet, punctuated only by the rattle of unsuitable wood against the garbage can. "G?" she ventures, "Not to pick a fight… but what happened between you and B?"

"I think we just covered it," he replies shortly, snapping a former piece of table in half.

"No, I mean, I know what went down with Spike. Both sides of that story, actually. I just… even after that, I don't understand why you're not with her and Dawn right now. You were so _tight_ when I last saw you. Not just Watcher-Slayer kind of tight, or even daddy-daughter. It was like, you were the only people who really _got_ the world you were living in, kinda thing. You and her, against the demons."

He puts down his broken table leg carefully. "She just… grew up, Faith" he replies, smiling sadly, "That's all that happened. She doesn't need me. I'm not her Watcher anymore; I never was her father. And I'm glad, do you understand? This is what I wanted for Buffy. To be able to stand without me."

Faith frowns, twisting wood in her hands. "Yeah, but being able to and wanting to are different things. You could still be useful to her, even if she makes all the big decision these days. Don't make sense to be apart when you love each other. Not—not in the icky way," she adds hurriedly, "The nice, you know, family kind of way."

He has no answer to that, a thought he has occasionally shared but pushed away. He cannot let it settle on him, the weight of a missed opportunity for the kind of life he thought had died with Jenny. That, he supposes, is really the nub of it: he _could_ have taken on the mantle of father and protector. Buffy offered it to him freely after her mother's death, and he recoiled. Told himself, of course, that it was for her own good as Slayer_. Can't be too dependent old man, not if you want her to live._

And underneath that selfless little lie, the real voice inside: _Can't be too dependent on her, Ripper. Not if you want her to live. _

Darkness swims in his wake; he is no blazing light to shield her from that shadow. She leapt to her death to save an innocent life as he was snuffing one out. She has had the best of him, and she knows it. The rest is better left undisturbed.

"Our place is here," he says eventually, "I know it and you know it too. Why else did you come? You could have gone with Robin to New York, or back to Angel in LA. Or made your own path."

Her scowl deepens. "It wasn't some great revelation. I just didn't wanna see you and Andrew get your necks broken, poking 'round a Hellmouth without Slayer support." She sighs. "I guess that's your point."

"Something like it, yes," he replies, picking up his homemade stakes again. There seems to be something more, bubbling just under the surface. He knows better than to press her, simply sits in the quiet and waits to see if she's willing to trust him.

"I'm off my game, G," she says in a low voice, after several more minutes of contemplative productivity. "So off my game I think I'm playing a different _sport_. Three vamps, shoulda been easy. Instead I almost got floored. Time off's made me… well, not soft. Slow, maybe. And there's all the wannabes coming up behind. I don't want to be the old joke Slayer."

"Faith, you're not a joke," he replies quietly, "You're a damn good Slayer."

"As good as Buffy?" she asks, pointedly.

_Walked into that one_. "Do you think you train as much as Buffy?"

"I guess not," she says after a beat, hands balling into white-knuckled fists as she fights her rising temper.

He waits for her to master her anger before making his offer. "If you want me to help with your training, I'm at your disposal."

"You going to be my Watcher again now?"

"No," he says firmly, "At least, not in the traditional sense. Someone to tell you what to do, what to think—that's what you had in prison. I-I think you've moved beyond that. Anyway, I don't delude myself into thinking you would follow my orders if I had the presumption to give them. I can advise. Suggest, perhaps. But no telling you what to do, I promise."

She blinks. "I think I understood _most_ of that." A rare smile creeps over her face; not the knowing grin of a wearied cynic, or the rictus of a berserker, but something genuinely happy. "And if you promise to advise in actual _English_ then, wicked. Count me in."


	5. Beginnings IV

Stadium floodlights pour into the sky, erasing the stars. There is a hint of popcorn in the air though the sound of the crowd in the stands is curiously muted. Faith kicks her heels against the churchyard wall, still unconvinced their location is sensible. He ignores her petulance and unscrews the lid of his thermos, pouring himself another cup of tea.

"You look like the weirdest picnicker ever," she remarks from her perch.

Supremely unruffled, he takes a sip. "Quite probably. I don't imagine we'll have to wait much longer."

"Well, I do. C'mon G, you gotta admit it. The game tonight means this whole area is lit up, and there's a _ton_ of people around. Hardly easy pickings for newly risen vamps. I still say we should be downtown where the clubs are. Drunk college kids always make for a decent meal."

"On the contrary, Faith, I think the game is what will draw vampires here. This isn't Sunnydale, remember. The vampire community isn't expecting a Slayer to be waiting. We should witness more of a-a natural feeding pattern, where sires will come to collect the newly turned and ritualistically induct them into vampire society with a shared, um, meal."

"Now you sound like a Discovery Channel special," she snorts.

"It's my job," he replies mildly, "You're going to have to trust me."

He ignores the face she pulls in response, knowing all too well her problems with the t-word. "Fine. I'll give it another half ho—" She stops abruptly at the familiar groan of stone on stone. Someone, possibly some_thing_, is opening one of the vaults. "Damn."

She leaps down from the wall, stake already in hand, scanning through the trees for the source of the noise. After a few paces she realises he is following after her, abandoning his sensibly-patterned picnic blanket in the lee of the wall. He is puzzled by her scowl. "How can I offer advice on your Slaying technique if I don't see you in action?" he explains, a tad defensive.

She grits her teeth. "Fine. Just don't get yourself killed."

He advances between the graves, crucifix in hand. The vampires aren't troubling to be inconspicuous. Crouching behind a particularly ornate headstone, he can see a group of five clustered around one of the larger crypts, smoking and laughing.

Faith is similarly brazen in her approach, simply walking out from the tree-line towards the gang. "Hey," she says simply, "Can I bum a smoke?"

They turn in unison, ugly faces cracking into hideously toothy grins. Not one of them registers Faith's strange calm in the presence of such monsters. "Smoking's bad for you, ain't you heard?" says the tallest. He is dressed in what seems to be standard uniform for the undead; long leather jacket and tight tee shirt, not unlike something Spike might have worn.

"Not as bad for you as coming here was," adds a second. He is wearing a baseball cap and oversized shirt. Giles patently refuses to learn the team colours and mascots but he can see a gothic letter 'D' on both, even from his hiding place.

The rest of the crew guffaws sycophantically, and Faith shakes her head. "Seriously? That's what counts as funny here? Huh. Guess I'm doing the comedy scene a favour." She brings her hands around from behind her back, revealing the stake. "Now, come on guys, who's first?"

They vampires exchange a long glance, and then attack as one. Faith holds her ground unflinchingly, knocking over the first with a powerful kick. She ducks a wild haymaker from baseball-cap; the punch continues over her head and makes contact with the chin of his leather-jacketed colleague instead. Three down already, she steps forward and blocks a blow from the fourth, taking advantage of his open stance to plunge her stake deep into his chest. As he explodes into dust she spins and stakes the fifth, trying to sneak behind her, before turning her attention to those struggling back to their feet.

Baseball-cap comes at her in a fighting stance at least, but her punches fall as hammer blows and he staggers again under the onslaught. Leather-jacket attempts to grab her as his colleague succumbs to the stake. He is rewarded with a back-kick to the stomach that sends him flying into his only remaining ally. Faith is on them both before they have a chance to rise again, stake plunging, and all is dust.

She blows hair out of her face as Giles stands up from his hiding place. "So, how'd I do?"

If she were Buffy, he would speak words of caution. He might call her to task about her selection of battleground, point out areas with a natural choke-point she could have used to better manage the attack. Perhaps he would advise on how her back-kick could be more accurate, sending her assailant sprawling further. He would warn against over-confidence and self-satisfaction, knowing his remarks would be laughed away on the surface and taken to heart underneath the good humour.

If she were Buffy.

Faith, however, is an altogether more difficult conundrum. "Pretty good, I'd say. Your backhand looked a little stronger, did you find?"

She looks a little disbelieving at his praise. There is suspicion in her eyes; like this is some trick she can't quite work out yet. "Yeah. Think those exercises you gave me have helped some," she concedes.

"Well, that's good. Shall we, uh, press on?"

She nods, still wary, and leads him further into the graveyard.

* * *

"Where's Andrew?" she asks, as she ambles into the warehouse for their scheduled session. It's a fair question, the junior Watcher has joined them for almost every training exercise they've undertaken since moving into the Warehouse.

"Thought we'd try something a bit different," he says lightly, indicating the crystals and wooden block he has set up on the mats.

He can almost see her hackles rise. "What are the rocks all about?"

"Power," he replies simply, "Control." She gives him a blank look. "They're meditation aides."

"Oh no," she says, shaking her head, "I had enough of that find-your-centre crap in the big house. I'm fine with superficial me, don't need to go digging about in my brain."

He raises his hands defensively. "Just give me five minutes," he pleads, "If it's not working, we'll stop and do some more axe work."

From her folded arms to stony mouth, she radiates misgiving. It's the biggest test of their burgeoning professional relationship. His usefulness as physical trainer has been easy to demonstrate, but a Watcher should be more than a martial arts coach or quartermaster.

He understands her fear, of course; knows what it's like to have hidden depths that contain nothing more than things that should be left to lie. "Faith, I promise, this isn't about, er, raking over your past. It's Slayer stuff only, you-you have my word."

Heaving a sigh, she uncrosses her arms and steps onto the mat. "Fine. Five minutes. What do I do?"

"I want you to focus on the pink crystal. Sit down and just look at it, and try to empty your mind."

She eyes the rose quartz moodily for about thirty seconds. "My mind is now empty of everything apart from how stupid this must look," she says.

"Half-way there then," he retorts, "Just keep looking at the crystal and focus on my voice. I want you to breathe deeply, and imagine a colour."

"What colour?"

"You choose. Just breathe it in. Let it fill you up, like water poured into a glass. Every breath draws in more…"

She throws him a supercilious scowl before turning her gaze back to the crystal. She's trying, he can see, and he can ask no more than that. It's hard to let go of the world around you when you're always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Even her name is a cruel irony; Faith: the one thing she can't place in anyone but herself. Perhaps he was wrong to try this so soon.

To his immense surprise she suddenly stands on her hands, balancing on the block with the easy grace of a Slayer. He is reminded of Buffy, years before, responding in the same way to the call of the wild within until Dawn bought her crashing to earth.

This time there are no distractions. Faith shifts her weight slowly, balancing on her left hand. _How apt_, he thinks. The contact between the demonic source of her divine power and its roots in the rotten earth _should_ be the hand of judgement; the sinister side.

_Her toes towards the sky, she is his Chosen One; a bridge between humanity and hell as much as a bulwark. She is what they made her, the Watching men, of whom he stands as sole survivor. And Watch her he will, walking the line between the light and dark; for any sign of Eve's weakness, the steps that lead to Fall. She is an iron blank, one that requires tempering and moulding into steel—_

_No_, he thinks, blinking his way out of the vision, disturbed. He dreams of those men in the desert sometimes, but it's been a long time since he heard their voices in his head. Perhaps they don't like the new path he's following. Perhaps he should care more about their wishes, but their methods don't fit the new world order. He put his faith in Buffy instead, a long time ago. He will follow her to whatever end.

He watches Faith, as she slowly replaces her hand, lowering herself back to the mat. She makes it look so easy, defying gravity; her power under complete control. He hopes she will understand the lesson when she returns back to herself.

She comes home slowly; he can tell that she's really back in the Warehouse with him when her face tightens, her frown reappearing. "Woah," she says.

"How do you feel?"

"Like I just dropped some serious acid," she says, characteristically blunt. "Wicked weird, G. I could see her. The First Slayer. See all of us, spread out now like candles on a birthday cake." She shakes her head, as if that can dispel the strangeness of it all.

"If it was unpleasant, we don't have to try it again," he reassures.

She bites her lip. "No I… I think I'd _like_ to try it again sometime," she confesses. "I felt… connected." She addresses the last part to his feet, suddenly unable to look him in the eye.

He feels a sudden pang of sympathy towards her, hunched and confused on the gym mats. Buffy struggled with the isolation of her calling too, he remembers well, and she was bound up in their network of Scoobies. How much harder it is to face the dark unaided; unloved.

"Good," he says, "I'm glad. A sense of connection is particularly important. None of us stand alone anymore."

She nods. "Not alone." The corners of her mouth tug into a rueful smile. "It takes some getting used to."


	6. Beginnings V

He opens his eyes in darkness; the awakening instant, adrenalized and complete. He is on his feet and armed in silent seconds. Someone is moving about in the Warehouse and not troubling to do so quietly. He opens the bedroom door noiselessly, a shadow on bare feet. Slipping down the corridor and back into the big open space, the source of the noise becomes apparent.

Faith.

She has been raiding the kitchen cupboards; presumably the cascade of food onto the counter is what roused him. She doesn't seem to be eating anything, however, braced over the sink as if the room is spinning around her. He rather suspects that it is. The smell of beer and cigarette smoke is strong enough for him to pick up from the door.

"Good night?" he ventures.

She spins, murder in her eyes, fist raised. She recognises him after a second of madness and drops her arm. Her frown remains fixed, feet in a fighter's stance. "What's with the axe?" she croaks.

He glances down at the weapon hastily selected and shrugs. "I thought we had company." He places the axe on the kitchen table, trying to gauge from her glassy eyes how much beer she has consumed. Too much is the short answer. "Coffee?" he offers.

She retches at the thought though manages not to vomit. He pulls out a chair and motions for her to sit. As she wobbles over, he retrieves the mop bucket from under the sink and pours out a large glass of water. Placing both in front of her he takes a seat opposite.

"Oh God," she says, holding her head, "Can we skip the disapproval part?"

"You see, this is what I never understand with you young people. This-this assumption that I've never done something as stupid as intoxicate myself so thoroughly I've thrown up."

"Too many syllables," she mumbles, taking a sip of her water.

"I mean, I was a punk. Hardly a culture associated with moderation and, uh, temperance."

This declaration is shocking enough to divert her attention from her immediate misery. "You were a _punk_?"

"Is it really so hard to believe?"

She stares at him. "In a word? Yes."

"Well, I was. And I'm not going to berate you for your… your youthful excess because that would make me a hypocrite. Besides, I think you're probably being punished enough."

"You got that right." She drinks some more water and stares at the glass for a while as she struggles to marshal her thoughts. "Not that I'm ungrateful, but why _are_ you doing this?"

It's his turn to look confused. "I don't know. Basic human courtesy? Looking out for one another?"

"I'm fine," she protests, stung, "Don't need looking after."

"I know, I can see that now," he returns mildly. "I just wanted to make sure that… Anyway, drink all of that water and hopefully you'll avoid the worst of the hangover you deserve."

He picks up the axe and moves to take his leave.

"I'm sorry," she says, as he stands, "Just not used to… people looking out for me without, y'know, wanting something in return."

"I know." His reply is gentle, in spite of the tendril of rage that unfolds inside him, burning for those people who have mistreated her so badly. "Give it time."


	7. Synchronicity I

**Six Months Later**

Her sword rings dully as he parries her first blow. He ducks the second and rolls, wincing a little as he rises to his feet. Seeing her opening, she raises her blade. Nimbler than she expects, he darts forward under her guard and the blunted edge of his practice blade is at her throat.

"I yield," she grins.

He backs off, wipes the sweat from his face and smiles back. "Getting better," he says.

"Yeah, yeah." She feigns disgruntlement. "If you were a vamp I would have staked you when you came body-to-body earlier."

"Good."

"Just so you know."

"No, as your Watcher I, uh, I think that's an excellent strategy."

"I feel there's a 'but' coming on…"

"As your fencing partner, I think you're a sore loser."

"_There's_ the but."

He cleans his blade before replacing it in the weapons rack. It is well past midnight, but the Warehouse lights are still ablaze. Andrew is accompanying the late patrol this evening, and she knows Giles still likes to see him safely home.

Crossing to the kitchenette area, he flicks on the kettle. "Tea?"

She makes a face. "Coffee, please."

He rolls his eyes and busies himself with the percolator. "Americans."

"I heard that." She follows him across the warehouse and takes a seat at the large kitchen table. "You know, one day I'll come home and not immediately face the Rupert Giles patented sixty point Slayer check."

"You'll miss it," he replies.

"Not the fencing part. Axe is my weapon. Or, you know, hands, feet. Teeth."

He serves her coffee and sits down opposite, slurping tea from his _World's Best Teacher_ mug. She raises her eyebrows at his choice of chinaware. "It was the closest the girls could find to Watcher," he informs her.

"Well, for most people World's Best Watcher _would_ have a wicked gross kind of vibe."

He frowns. "Yes, I suppose so. Why are you laughing?"

"Oh, I had a little bet with Xander. About how long it would take before you stopped being glad to see me and did that annoyed little scowl thing."

He sighs. "Of course. And how _is_ the illustrious Mister Harris?"

She sips her coffee, black and sweet, just the way she likes it. "He's good. They all are. And they all send their love. Especially Dawn. I think she's planning on coming over for a visit soon, once school's out."

"Oh, that will be marvellous," he says, smiling again, "And the demon?"

"Sixty foot long, stank of rotten fish…Oh, and get this: it breathed _fire_. B's got a great crew she's building, but I like to think it was me and Angel that turned the tide. We put it down." She takes another slug of coffee. "Of course, Xander had to point out that we probably killed the Loch Ness Monster."

"Mmm. I hadn't thought of that but yes, it, uh, could very well be the origin of that particular myth."

She lets him ponder the idea for a moment before bringing him back to their here and now. "What'd I miss here? Any new faces?"

"Oh no, much the same as ever. Although… actually there is _one_ thing…"

"Whatcha got for me G? Don't hold out. Vamp, demon, ghoul – I'm your go to gal."

He drains his tea. "Well, that's the thing, I'm not sure if it _is_ any of the above. Hang on a moment."

She waits at the table for him to return, presumably with some dusty tome, casting an experienced eye over the Warehouse. Someone, probably Giles, has been cutting staff-rods down to size for the younger Slayers. There are four of them now, all survivors of the destruction of Sunnydale that have drifted back into their fold one way or another. They're easier to get along with now everyone has their own bed. It also helps that Faith has managed to commandeer one of the en-suite rooms; fighting for the bathroom mirrors only reminded her of prison.

Giles reappears with an envelope in hand. "Here it is; it's very strange."

She takes it from him wordlessly. Addressed to him; his full name handwritten, not typed, and with a local postmark. He has already slit it open with trademark neatness and she pulls out a glossy flier from inside.

"It's an invite to some art exhibition at a gallery you're a member of. This is strange how?"

"Well, I checked on the gallery's website—"

"Their _website_?" she exclaims, in mock horror, "It _must_ be the apocalypse if you're using the computer."

"Ha-ha. Very droll. Evolve or die, as they say. I'm not, uh, proud to have joined the communication revolution crowd but it's become increasingly difficult to remain apart now you all use e-mail and what-have-you to arrange things. Anyway, I checked online and this exhibition doesn't actually exist."

"Okay. I agree that's weird, but is it really Hellmouth weird?"

"Actually, I think it's more personal than that. The fake exhibition you see… well, it doesn't really matter, but I used to collect Thorgerson prints when I was younger. Um. There's not many people who know that. One person that _does_ has a sadistic sense of humour and a penchant for overly complicated evil schemes."

"Penchant?"

"Liking for," he translates, "His name is Ethan. Last I knew he was under military arrest after turning me into a Fyarl demon."

"Woah, back things up a sec there, G. Turned you into a _demon_?"

* * *

Behind the warehouse is a residential block, rooms for the former Council taskforce that originally inhabited the place. They are mostly single bedrooms grouped around large communal bathrooms, pleasant enough in a college-dorm sort of way. At the end of each corridor are slightly larger rooms with en-suite facilities. Faith has occupied the one on the ground floor, Giles its counterpart on the second. Andrew remains bitterly unhappy about this but given their _de facto _division into male and female floors he effectively has three of the larger bathrooms for his personal use, neutering his arguments somewhat. In the future, if more Slayers arrive, they may have to rethink the arrangements. For the moment, Giles has converted some of the empty second floor bedrooms into classrooms, a small library and a secondary armoury.

She finds him, unsurprisingly, in the library; immersed in a book that almost covers the table. "You ready?"

He looks up at her, blinks, and covers his mouth with his hand. She's not quite sure if he's hiding a smile or a grimace of horror. "Is it possible you're taking the undercover element a little seriously?" he asks, when he has control of his face.

"What's wrong with my outfit?" She tugs at her jacket self-consciously. It matches her trousers, the black leather offset by her favourite orange tank top.

"Nothing. The whole ensemble is… well, it's very Suzi Quatro."

"Which is a good thing?"

"Well, musically she was a bit pedestrian I suppose, but she did revolutionise—" He catches her eye and stops. "Yes, it's fine. You, er, look like you've fallen out of 1974. Shall we?"

"Please let's."

The gallery is a short walk away, cutting through the Cleveland State campus. The college area is busy, and she finds herself scanning the crowds, looking for anything out of the ordinary among the groups of young people. This used to be a prime feeding ground for vampires. Now word seems to have gotten around that Slayer HQ is nearby, and attacks are rarer.

"Anything?"

She shakes her head. "Slayer sense is not tingling."

"Slayer sense?" he mutters, not quite under his breath, "Andrew has a lot to answer for."

They come to a halt as they wait for the lights to change at a crosswalk. "We should split up. So they don't make me as your bodyguard."

"You are _not_ my bodyguard," he bridles, "I am more than capable of dealing with Ethan Rayne. You're… you're back-up in case he's bought anything, um, supernatural along with him."

"Does he tend to?"

"He's an agent of Chaos. There's no telling what he might do."

With that he strides off ahead, tweed jacket flapping. She counts to a hundred under her breath and then follows after him.

Inside the gallery is all white-washed walls, painted concrete floor and weird installations. It might be typical; she wouldn't know, as she's never been inside one before. Most of the people inside are Giles' age, tourists dressed in cagoules and clutching oversized cameras, or older men in roll necks. She draws one or two curious glances but most people are focussed on the art. She can't imagine why. There are sculptures made out of bits of junk, all papier-mâché and exposed chicken wire, and some hideous oil paintings that seem to be random smears of paint splattered across a canvas. No beauty that she can see in any of it.

She clocks Giles alone in the back room; where the travelling exhibitions are housed, according to the sign. He is standing in front of a print of a pair of hammers. They look vaguely familiar, probably something culturally important she should know about.

She hunches her shoulders, suddenly miserable. Nothing annoys her more than feeling stupid, reminders of all the gaps in her knowledge she should have filled. Oddly one of the few people she can take a lecture from these days is Giles, possibly because compared to his vast intellect they _all_ have the faculties of a concussed duckling. Or maybe he just has the knack of teaching her without making her feel small. In either case, she wishes she could go over to him and ask what the weird splodges are all about, or why the hammers look familiar. Instead she slips into the room behind him and feigns an intense interest in a picture of some men hanging by their feet.

"Try Anything Once," says the unctuous voice behind her, "It was a good album."

The voice belongs to a smiling man, slightly built, and dressed in a riotous silk shirt. "Ethan Rayne," he says, holding out is hand. The door clicks shut behind him—their only exit—turning the light exhibition space into a cell. "You'll be his Slayer, no doubt. And stop trying to sneak up behind me, Rupert. You must have known this was a set-up."

"It was a tad obvious," Giles replies. Faith is taken aback at the expression on his face; a sneer the like of which she's never seen before.

"And yet you came anyway. You're so predictable Ripper. You never could resist the promise of a good fight."

It's hard to believe this man is talking about her Watcher, stuffy and dependable Giles. She feels a prickle of unease. The rage clouding Giles face reminds her of the way he moves when they fence; quick and sharp and not like the bumbling Englishman she knows at all.

"If it's fighting you want, it's me you'll be dealing with," she says bullishly, to cover her uncertainty.

Ethan merely laughs in response. "They always have such _fire_, don't they?"

"What do you want Ethan? I assume this elaborate set up isn't just so we can reminisce."

"I need a favour, mate," Ethan says.

Giles rolls his eyes. "And of course, I'm going to help you. Because I owe _you_ a kindness after you transfigured me and tried to have me killed."

"I'm dying," Ethan replies bluntly, still smiling, although much of the mirth has drained from the rest of his face, "Really truly, I am. And you know what happens when I go."

His face has blanched but Giles still looks guarded. "Both your masters fight for possession of your soul, I assume. If you still have one."

"Oh, how you wound me. Of course I still have one. I'm human, aren't I?"

"Barely."

"Now that _is_ a richness, coming from you, Ripper. If you think _I'm_ off to eternal torment, what must await you?" He turns to Faith. "I'll bet he hasn't told you that part, has he, Slayer? He likes to pretend he's the occult's answer to Hugh Grant, all st-st-stuttering charm—"

His cruel impression is cut short by Giles' fist. It's a brutal blow that knocks Ethan to the floor. Giles advances, pulling his former friend to his feet roughly and raising his arm again. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't beat you senseless," he says, in a voice hard as stone.

Ethan merely giggles. "Not who you think, is he?" he asks Faith.

Perhaps in the heat of the moment Giles has forgotten she is watching his uncharacteristic display. His rage slips a little as he looks across at her. "I, um—"

It happens too quickly for her to shout a warning. Ethan grabs Giles' right shoulder, straightens his arm with a curious jerk of his elbow, and the one-shot crossbow hidden up his sleeve fires.

Her voice may take a moment to catch up on events, but her Slayer instincts mean she is already moving as the quarrel punches its way through her Watcher's chest. She barrels into Ethan, knocking him over. All of the control she has learnt in the last six months is stripped away as they roll, over and over. He is no match for her, trying to claw at her face ineffectually. She slams him hard against the concrete floor to stop his struggling and punches him in the face; once, twice, three times. He spits blood and teeth as she raises her fist for a fourth blow, his laughter now a gurgle. "Too late, little girl."

Impulse screams at her to shut that mouth up for good. Punching his smug face into a bloody pulp seems a good option; a just sentence for daring to hurt someone she cares about. Instead, she leaps to her feet and runs to Giles, collapsed on floor. Blood is already pooling around him as he gasps for air, his hand pressed weakly to his chest where the bolt is sticking out. He is trying to apply pressure to the wound, she realises. She places her hands on top of his, for all the good that will do

"Help!" she chokes out, "Please, somebody!"

Ethan has rolled over, his face already blooming purple, but doesn't yet seem able to stand. "Calm down," he says thickly, "He isn't going to bleed to death."

She doubts this assessment, given the puddle of blood she already kneels in. Behind the door she can hear the shouts of their would-be rescuers, the muffled thumps of those trying to gain entry. "Help us, please!" she calls again, for good measure. Perhaps she should break the door down herself, but the warm spurt of blood under her hands holds her in place.

Giles is trying to say something but can't find the breath to carry the words. She leans in close to catch his desperate whisper. "Run."

Terror, terror, invades every limb, paralysing. Ethan is dragging himself towards them and she wants to fight; to do what she does best and kill him without mercy. But to attack him now is to turn her back on everything she has worked for since she begged Angel for death; to leave Giles to gasp his last alone on the floor and embrace the dark. She can't do it, she realises, hysteria rising. Ethan is human and she cannot kill him. Her redemptive moment could not have come at a worse time.

Ethan finally finds his feet. He sways, taking a step towards them. "I'm sorry," he says, "But I told you already, I'm dying. I need to borrow some of Ripper's time. Just the bits he doesn't want."

"Get away!" she spits. She doesn't care for his gibberish. Pressing hard down on Giles' wound, she can feel him fighting for every breath. "I'm not going anywhere without you," she tells him firmly. She's not sure if he can hear.

"It's a shard of Kairos," Ethan continues, "Once I speak the words, his wound will close."

He's talking about the crossbow bolt, she realises. It's not a normal quarrel but something like an elaborately carved horn. Blood is filling up the incised design in a way that is surely unnatural, seeping up a stem that protrudes grotesquely from Giles' chest.

"And he'll be healed?"

"I promise. That wound will be all better."

There's something she's missing, she knows it in her gut, but blood is still pulsing under her hands and Giles doesn't have the time.

"Do it," she snarls, "Do it now, because if he dies I swear to God… I will cut you into little pieces."

He smiles, baring his smashed teeth like he doesn't believe her, and recites his spell in a language she doesn't recognise. "Κύριος του χρόνου, δεομαι. Πάρτε από αυτόν τις ώρες του πόνου και της δυστυχίας. Δώσε μου εκείνες τις στιγμές. Θα τους πάρει πρόθυμα, όπως κάποιος που τον αγαπούσε, ως κάποιος που αγαπήθηκε από τον ίδιο. Το αίμα Του ως μυστήριο. Δώσε μου την ώρα .Δώσε μου την ώρα!"

His dramatic finish falls rather flat. Despite the ringing oration, nothing seems to have happened. He frowns, as puzzled as she is, and takes another step towards them—

—and they vanish, simply winking out of existence, leaving nothing behind but a spreading pool of blood on the gallery floor.


	8. Synchronicity II

There should be flashing lights or howling winds; at the very least some crackles of mystical energy or a shower of sparks to show they have vanished into the ether.

Instead, there is darkness and the sensation of intense pressure. Tight bands across her chest force all the air from her lungs. She can't catch her breath; opens her mouth to scream and as suddenly as it began, it is over.

A square of blue sky above her, framed by cracked tiles and charred timber; heady smell of pollen and petrichor in the air_._ She blinks. Her thoughts are all tangled. _And how can I see so clearly without my glasses? _

"I don't wear glasses," she mumbles to no one, "And I don't know what petrichor means."

"Faith?"

Her name. She remembers it only as he says it; his voice brings her back to herself.

She sits up. "Giles?"

He is picking his way through the rubble towards her, all concern as he kneels at her side. "Are you ok?"

She shakes her head. "Less important than how _you_ are," she says, reaching compulsively for his shoulder. There is no trace of the shard; her fingers brush the tweed fabric of his jacket, miraculously mended along with the flesh.

"Inexplicably un-perforated," he says, helping her up. "Not that I'm complaining."

"What happened?" she asks, taking in the devastation around them. "Looks like a bomb went off in here."

There is something else, something that feels wrong. The shattered roof tiles and splintered wood make sense, but the damp—the tangles of weeds and nettles—less so. The air tastes strange.

"I don't think this is the art gallery," Giles answers, "I think we were sent somewhere else. By, um, by magic."

"Where?"

He opens his mouth, closes it again, and she knows his next words will be a lie. "I'm not sure."

"Yeah, but you have an idea," she presses. "C'mon, G. Trust me."

The sound of childish laughter cuts off his response. They turn in unison as a little boy enters at a run, shouting back over his shoulder: "Can't catch me!"

"Hey!" calls Faith, but the boy ignores her, clambering up one of the larger piles of rubble. He is wearing some sort of fancy dress costume; _Harry Potter_ perhaps, given his oversized spectacles, or maybe _Chronicles of Narnia_ with his little green cap and matching v–neck jumper. Scabby knees and short trousers complete the old fashioned schoolboy look.

She tries again. "Hey, kid?"

"I'm the King of the Castle!" the little boy bellows, apparently oblivious to her presence.

She turns to Giles. "He can't hear me?"

But Giles isn't listening either, his face a mask of horror as he stares at the boy. She looks back, expecting to see some eldritch abomination emerging from his small form. He is merely hopping from foot to foot in childish excitement, lord of the rubble pile, as a girl appears in the doorway of the shattered room.

Taller, older, dressed in a faded pinafore dress; her demeanour screams 'elder sister.' She tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear and puts a hand on her hip. "Rupert," she chides, "You know we're not meant to come in here."

A slither of ice trickles down Faith's spine as she dimly assembles the clues: the cut-glass accent, Giles's dumbstruck face, something in the jaw-line of the boy…

"Giles," she says slowly, "Is that _you_?"

He nods jerkily, like a man in a dream. Perhaps that's exactly what he is, and she's been sucked into the living nightmare of someone else. Again. As if a mystical _This Is Your Life _tour through Angel's storied past wasn't enough.

Up on his rubble pile, Rupert is pouting. "You don't want to play fighter-pilots?"

"Uh-uh," the girl replies, "It's time to go home now. Your mother will be wondering where you are."

"Spoil sport." He thrusts a grubby hand into his pocket and retrieves a model plane.

"Come _on_, Rupert. You'll get me into trouble."

He lets out a bloodcurdling shriek as he suddenly leaps to the ground. Faith flinches, before realising he is merely imitating the scream of a fighter's engine, the stutter of machine gun fire, as he runs towards the girl.

"You little _beast_!" she cries in mock anger, swatting away the model as he pretends to dive bomb her. "If you're not careful the Baron'll _get_ you."

With a cheeky grin she pulls out her own model, a little red plane, and chases him out of the bomb-site.

Birdsong fills the silence left in their wake.

"So," says Faith after a long moment, "Where are we?"

"The bombsite by the river in Pimlico," answers Giles. He misreads her blank look. "In London… a–a long time ago."

"No, I mean, are we in your head? Is this a flashback or a dream or… what?"

"I don't know." He picks up a piece of roof tile and throws it at the rubble pile his younger self was perched on. It smashes satisfactorily on impact, seemingly real enough. "I think we're actually here. In the past, I mean. Out of phase."

"Woah." Even by their standards, it ranks as unusual. "Time travel, really? I thought that was science-fiction."

"Well, it's certainly _possible_ but hardly advisable. Even out of phase we can probably cause a-a paradox or some other… mess." He kicks another tile in frustration. "This is just _typical_ of Ethan. Bloody idiot was never any good at designing spells. Oh, plenty of raw _power_. But power isn't enough; sooner or later you have to actually _learn_ things..."

"Are you done?" she asks, as his grumbling trails off.

"Maybe," he says, uncharacteristically mutinous, "I might think of some more names to call him if you give me a moment."

"Not helping in the strictest sense," she replies. "I'm thinking we need to figure a way out of here—"

_—darkness and pressure, the terrible sensation of being squeezed—_

They are standing behind a sofa in the living-room of a small and rather chintzy flat. Faith gasps, dizzy at the speed of their jump; catching Giles he stumbles.

"You ok?"

"Five by…" He stops, looking confused. "Fine, I mean. I'm fine."

Unease prickles again. It's not like Giles to make a joke in a situation like this, or to borrow what he calls her 'abuses of the English language' to express himself.

"Rupert?" The voice is female, soft and kind. Faith freezes, feeling Giles' fingers dig into her arm.

A woman stands up from the sofa. She turns to look through the window, staring straight through their absurd tableaux. Very young, very petite and very pregnant; the resemblance between her and Giles is more than striking. Years of care mean his face is more lined but still essentially a copy.

The door bangs open and this time it really is Rupert, still in the midst of his fighter-plane impression.

"Hello darling," greets the woman, "A little quieter, would you please? I have the most terrible headache."

Rupert nods obediently, throwing himself onto the sofa, where he continues his flight of fancy at a whispered volume.

"Did Charlotte walk you home?"

He looks up from his game a moment. "Yes, mother. Just like you said. No stopping."

"Now that I don't believe for a second," she smiles. "Come here. I want a hug before Daddy gets home."

Rupert squirms slightly, but puts down his plane and crosses to her. She wraps her slender arms around him and holds him tightly.

"Daddy says I'm too big now for cuddles," he says earnestly. "And soon you'll have the new baby to hold instead."

"I know," she replies sadly, "But I think Daddy is a funny old stick-in-the-mud about these things, and four is much too young to be giving up hugs from Mummy. What do you think?"

Rupert shrugs, unable to articulate his position on the matter. "Can I play with my plane again now?"

"Yes darling, of c-c-course." She stutters slightly, her face twitching. "How strange," she says with a smile, putting her hands to her mouth.

The tic comes again, making Rupert giggle. His laughter is cut short, however, as his mother starts to violently shake.

"Oh God," Faith breathes. Every instinct screams to help the convulsing girl, but her feet seem glued to the floor. Besides, what can she do as an invisible first-aider?

Rupert is screaming now, terrified, as his mother falls to the ground and thrashes on the carpet. Giles' grip on her arm is painfully tight and—

—_darkness, almost a relief this time, pressure building—_

The grass is damp underfoot.

Giles lets go of her arm, walking away from her to a stone bench nearby. He sits, his face unreadable.

"Was-was she okay?"

"No," he answers shortly, and she curses her stupidity.

"I'm real sorry," she manages.

He pulls out his handkerchief. For a second she wonders if he might cry, but he merely takes off his spectacles and cleans them industriously. His eyes are dry. "Yes," he says absently, "Me too."

For want of anything better to do, she tries to get some sense of their new location. They are in square garden boxed in on all sides by an imposing red-brick building. A tree-lined avenue runs away from them, terminating in a fussy neo-Classic edifice.

She blinks, unease solidified now into full blown dread. Edifice is not a word she has ever _heard_ before, let alone one to deploy with breezy certainty when considering their architectural environs. She opens her mouth to ask Giles what on earth the sudden lexical refinement could mean, but catches sight of his strangely blank face and thinks better of it.

"D'you want to talk about it?" she offers, scuffing her feet on the wet grass.

"Not particularly. I think we best focus on getting out of here."

She nods. "More than ready to go myself. Question is, how?"

He sighs. "I'm not sure. I admit; I'm hazy on some of the details after I was shot."

She sits next to him on the bench and tries to remember. "Ethan said the… thing was a shard of something. Shard of…Careus, maybe?"

"Kairos?"

"Yeah, that sounds about right. He said he needed some of your time. It didn't make any sense."

Giles ponders her words for a few moments. "Well, I've heard of the Shards, at least. Powerful magical artefacts, all thought to have been lost in the sixteenth century. Together they made the Orb of Kairos, which was supposed to give the bearer mastery over moments of decision."

"Time-travel powers?"

He makes a face, one she recognises from their long hours of planning together since they moved to the Hellmouth. She feels a rush of relief—if he can muster his customary expression of dislike for her indelicate phrasing of complex ideas, he must be feeling more like himself.

"Technically, yes, I suppose. Kairos means more than just time, though; it's a-a _quality_ of time in Greek philosophy. A kind of moment between moments where something important happens."

It's her turn to pull faces as she tries to wrap her head around the concept. "So, we're what? Time-travelling to important moments in your life?"

"Maybe. But why? Why would Ethan…?" He trails off. Something over her shoulder has caught his eye.

She turns to see a man and boy in black walking down the avenue. Young Rupert is red-eyed and terribly pale. He adopts an odd sort of skipping gait to keep up with the long strides of man. There is nothing of Giles in his face, but something about the way Rupert looks up at him as they walk past begs the question.

"That your Dad?"

Giles nods. "The day of my mother's funeral. And after we buried her, he told me I was being sent away to boarding school." There is a bitterness in his voice she has never heard before.

"You didn't get on?"

"I hated my Father. And he hated me."

Other people might be flustered by such a declaration, even declaim it. Not her. "Yeah. I know that tune."

"I was a disappointment to him. And I reminded him of… of my mother."

"Sounds like you had a rough sitch," she says, uncomfortable. "You do look a lot like her."

It's a terrible thing to admit, but if the Hellmouth would open and swallow her whole, she would cheerfully jump in at this moment. An intruder on some deeply private grief; what words can she offer, what gesture of compassion? She stares at her feet in mute embarrassment and tries to think of the right thing to say.

His gaze is similarly fixed on the floor. "I'd forgotten," he confesses, "It's been such a long time since I saw her and-and I'm so much older than she was." He stops abruptly, swallowing a lump in his throat. "I thought it was my fault."

The words seem to hang in the air as she struggles to make sense of them. "Your fault? What—that she died?"

"Silly I suppose. But for years I—" His words have left him again, biting his lip and not able to look at her.

"Jesus, G. That's wicked dark." She tries and fails to repress the memory of the girl's convulsions. "I'm fair sure it wasn't."

"No," he agrees, and even now he seems compelled to explain; she thinks it must be built in at bone-level. "Eclampsia. Eventually I saw the, uh, the death certificate. Happens even today sometimes. To-to women in late pregnancy."

His throat is working again as he fights the rising tide of emotion. She curses her awkwardness, these situations always a world without a map for her. How can she know how to be a comfort when no one ever took the trouble to do so for her? Not until Angel and the State of California Prison Service murder-rehab programme, anyway.

She touches her little finger to his hand on the bench. He makes no move to withdraw, so she folds her fingers over his and gives his hand a reassuring squeeze. It's awkward as hell, but he returns the pressure, blinking back tears. As close as she can come to a comforting hug, it seems to be enough. After a moment he can look at her again, giving her a slightly shaky smile of gratitude.

"I'm sorry."

"It's no big. Really, this must be hell for you—"

_—a return to the darkness, pressing in on all sides—_

"Man, this is already getting old," she scowls, as her feet make ground again.

They stand in the shadow of a large house desperately in need of a new coat of paint. Unlike the verdant grass of Giles's childhood home, the lawn here is dying.

He holds out a hand to quiet her frustration, already discomfited by their new surroundings. "This isn't from my past. I think we're in America again."

"Yeah," she agrees with a sigh. "This one's all me."


	9. Synchronicity III

They are back in the gallery, Giles is gasping on the floor as his life pours away, blood pooling on the white tiles. This isn't quite a memory. There is no Ethan, no Faith desperately trying to help her dying mentor. They stare for a second and then—

* * *

The little girl cries, pulling herself to her feet using the bars of the filthy cot. Hunger gnaws her insides and still no one comes—

* * *

He is six years old, and he misses everything about her. Crying into his pillow so the other boys in the dormitory won't hear; he's never quiet enough. They laugh at his tears and call him a thousand ugly names. Hard as their words come their sharp little fists, and always the hiss of don't tell, can't tell; we'll kill you if you breathe a word—

* * *

"I didn't steal them," she says, and it's true. Mrs Kennedy at the food bank slipped the crumpled bills into her hands as they packed up on Christmas Eve. "They're a present from Santa."

That's what the kind lady told her; that she was instructed to pass them on in case Father Christmas can't find her later, what with them not having a chimney and all.

Her father merely laughs. "Faithy, only good girls get presents from Santa. And we both know you ain't a good—"

* * *

Worse, much worse, than the beating that led to his broken arm is his father's disappointment. "You mustn't let them bully you, Rupert. You're better than that."

I'm not, he wants to say, but the words get stuck these days, and he dare not let his stutter out in the study. Better to be thought a fool by his old man than open his mouth and confirm he's gone soft—

* * *

_Don't let him in_, she thinks, hidden under the kitchen table. But of course her mother does. He has her medicine bottle in his hands, after all, and the smell of it already on his breath. It always starts with laughter and kisses and always ends in bruises—

* * *

Rupert and Charlotte meet at the Shrubbery these days, their bomb-site hideaway long since rebuilt into flats.

Faith can't know this, and yet she does.

It's a bitterly cold December day and she can see them sitting cross-legged on the wall at the water's edge. They are sharing a cigarette.

"You've got to start talking more around him," Charlotte says, blowing smoke with a practiced ease. The wind has whipped colour into her pale cheeks and the tips of her fingers. She wears her hair like Jean Shrimpton now, a rebellious flick of dark eyeliner carefully applied.

"I can't," he says, frowning, "I s-stutter around him and it makes him angry."

"It's not so bad these days."

"Not with you, no." He accepts the cigarette from her and takes a rather less confident drag. "But with him…"

"Well, your school reports must show him you're not an idiot. I mean, they want you to sit O-Levels next year. That's what, three years early?" There's just a hint of jealousy in her voice.

"He doesn't care about that s-sort of s-stuff though. My magic might be improving, but my fencing is still h-hopeless and all the time I'm in the flat he wants me to do d-drills." He throws the cigarette butt into the iron-grey Thames, disconsolate. "He s-smashed my guitar up yesterday. S-said it was a foolish waste of time. I think my record collection will be next; if he f-finds it."

She winces in sympathy. "Come over to mine tonight then," she offers. "And bring the LPs for safe keeping. We can say we're practicing spell-work. We _can_ be practicing spell-work. That's got to be better than the homework most of the boarders back for Christmas have, surely?"

"I s-suppose." He sighs, swinging his legs over the wall and dropping down into the garden. "I'll call round later?"

"Not before six," she says, accepting his helpful hand down even though the chivalrous gesture is vaguely ridiculous; she is twice as tall as he. "I'm meeting Michael for Christmas shopping this afternoon."

"Christmas s-_snogging_, more like."

She punches him lightly in the shoulder. "You watch it, beast, or I'll box your ears. One day you'll finally grow up a bit and understand it's a serious business."

"S-see you." He watches her walk out of sight before sinking to the ground in the lee of the wall. He does not cry, but looks lonelier than Faith has ever seen him.

"You really loved her."

He still does; the Charlotte that lives in their present. She knows that too, without him ever telling her.

"Yes."

"What's happening, G? I got… all these words in my head that aren't mine, all these bits of you."

"I know. It-It's the Shard, connecting us. I just wish I understood _why—_

* * *

They've sent her home for fighting again, fat lip and blacked eye. Her foster carer merely sighs and breaks out the frozen peas. She's good, Mrs K; has dealt with enough troubled kids over the years to know when to push and when to keep her mouth shut. She looks at Faith's crossed arms and tap-tapping foot, all nervous energy, and knows today is the latter—

* * *

The straw that broke the camel's back is the unfortunately named Henry Herbert-Hatton, formally the Viscount of Sondes but known to his peers as Smasher. Hooker for the rugby firsts and school wrestling champion, he has been Giles' tormentor-in-chief for the last two years.

Shoving the weird, stuttering Rupert across a corridor is mundane enough to be unremarkable. Smasher shoulder-barges him without thinking and his entourage don't bother to laugh as he stumbles. Rupert's humiliation is now so ritual it goes unnoticed, and that's what tips him over the edge.

"Hey!" he shouts, reigning in his initial desire to run and punch the back of Henry's fat head. A gentleman fights face to face, after all.

Smasher turns, curiosity battling contempt. "Yeah?"

"Mind where you're going, dickhead." It's not the best insult, as these things go, but it's enough to enrage the Smasher.

"Actually, it's you who needs to get out of _my_ way," responds the bully, advancing menacingly.

_Alarm bells should be ringing_, thinks Faith. She's seen enough now of the brutality Rupert endured during his prep-school days to know he shrinks away habitually, cringes at a cruel word or blow. But this time he stands his ground, eyes narrowed, feet in a fighter's stance. He _waits_.

Henry doesn't see the change; he grabs the front of Rupert's shirt, pulling him nose to nose. "Are you going to apologise?" the older boy asks.

Rupert head-butts him in response, and Faith can _hear_ Henry's nose break. Shrieking, he stumbles as Rupert surges forward; the worm finally turned. There is none of the noise of a typical school knockabout as they fight, eerie silence in the corridor as the other boys between classes simply stand back to watch.

Rupert dodges a few blows and then kicks the legs out from under his opponent. Faith can see the wildness in his eyes; a beaten down dog who has finally decided to bite back. He straddles Henry's chest and hits him hard in the face, raising his arm for another blow—

"That's enough!"

One of the Masters is advancing down the corridor, black robes billowing behind him. The hollow-eyed crowd melts away as he strides towards Rupert and his prone tormentor.

"What the _Hell_ do you think you're doing, Mr. Giles? Your opponent's down, there's no need to smash his face in like some feral thug." Down is pronounced 'doon' in his thick Scottish brogue. He grabs Giles' still upraised fist and pulls him off the young Viscount. "Wilkinson; Kingsley, stop running away like a pair of cowards and help young Henry here to the Nurse's office."

Henry's friends, already halfway down the corridor, turn about shamefacedly. Henry spits blood onto the floor and struggles to his elbows. "It was an unprovoked attack, Master Lassiter," he says thickly.

"Aye, much like the one that broke Mr. Giles's arm last year, I'm sure. You've had your just desserts, Henry. Be grateful I was here to stop more than that coming to you."

Henry stares up at the Master in shock, the bottom dropping out of his world. His friends help him to his feet and away down the corridor, past the invisible Faith.

"When did Rupert turn into such a psychopath?" mutters the first as they draw level.

Henry wipes blood from his mouth rather than reply.

"Like a bloody serial killer or something. The WA Ripper..."

She turns her attention back to Rupert and Lassiter. "I don't suppose you can explain yourself?" asks the latter quietly.

Rupert is more concerned with the blood on his hands than their conversation. Lassiter gives him a little shake, jolting him back to the situation. "No s-sir."

"I know Henry's been bullying you since you arrived here. Why today? What changed?"

Rupert considers his options, finding them remarkably few. "They didn't laugh," he admits eventually. "I'm not even a j-joke anymore."

"Do you feel better now?"

Rupert shakes his head. "No sir."

Lassiter relaxes slightly. "Well, at least you've learnt _that_ lesson. The skills we teach you here are not to be used to settle personal vendettas. You will be punished for attacking Henry."

"Yes sir."

"And part of that punishment will entail detention with me every night this week in the practice yards."

Rupert frowns with confusion. "S-sir?"

"You've a gift for fighting, Rupert. That's something the Council can use. It's no surprise, I suppose, a bloodline like yours."

For the first time, Faith sees an expression on the young Rupert's face that is pure Giles; a nonplussed frown that suggests perhaps the world has gone made and he's the only sane man left. "S-Sir? I think you're c-confusing me with someone else. My wrestling is, um, atrocious."

Lassiter sighs. "Your wrestling is atrocious, Mister Giles, because you are five-foot and a fag-end tall and you weigh less than a bag of sugar." He ignores the boy's gape and continues: "So what? Do you think the demons you'll face will want to box Queensberry rules? That any Slayer you train will always be stronger than her opponents? Henry is twice your size; by rights we should be picking bits of your teeth out of the corridor carpet for the next few weeks. Instead he's being half-carried to the Nurse's office. You put him down."

"I–I didn't mean to—"

"Don't lie to me. Of course you _meant_ to. He was hurting you and you'd had enough. You were protecting yourself. That's what a Watcher does. Protects the weak from the strong. Now, wash your hands and get to class. I'm sure your summons to the headmaster will occur forthwith."

Rupert doesn't need telling twice, turning tail and running down the corridor. Lassiter watches him go, half-smiling.

"He's right, you know," says Faith to the present-day Giles, "You hide it well with the tweedy threads and glasses and all, but you got a gift for _smacking_ things when you let yourself."

"I'm not unaware," he replies, uncomfortably, "I just don't think it's the, um, the best part of who I am."

She gives him a pointed look. "It's all _I_ am. Slayer. Doesn't have subtly to it."

"That's not true."

"Reality check, G. I'm _Faith_, not Buffy. I'm not your great leader or shining hero. Haven't you seen enough already to know my fists were flying _long _before I got called? Slaying just gave me an excuse. I never needed a reason."

He sighs. "I know you're not Buffy. You grew up with a father who wasn't just absent, but chronically abusive… and-and with a mother who couldn't protect herself, let alone her daughter. You've been in pain for as long as you can remember, and sometimes you have to spread that around a bit. Have you not seen enough of _me_ yet, to know that I understand exactly what that's like?"

"We're not the same," she says, shaking her head. "You can turn it on and off like a switch. Spend most of your time speaking soft with your nose in a book. _You_ only let it out when you need it."

He laughs bitterly. "Oh, Faith. Control is something I _learned_. Just like you. A bitter hard lesson borne of guilt and regret."

"Bullshit."

"Well, if things continue in this vein, I imagine you'll see for yourself fairly soon," he snaps, and right on cue they are pitched back into the dark.


	10. Synchronicity IV

Fourth-form privileges include Saturday trips to Winchester, and the chance to see Charlotte during term-time. For Rupert this is both an agony and an ecstasy.

Some days she meets him alone for afternoon tea and they stroll around the ancient capital together. Arm in arm, they trade stories from their respective Academy campuses. Other times Charlotte is accompanied by her sixth-form friends who seem to view Rupert as some sort aberration; a boy not old enough to be interesting but far too gangling to be deemed 'cute.'

And worst of all are days like today, when Charlotte and her friends meet with their sixth-form equivalents from the boy's school and Rupert dare not approach her. He's not scared of Henry Herbert-Hatton and his crew of course, but he _is_ terrified that in an effort to maintain face Charlotte might forsake their bond of friendship and tell him to fuck off in front of the older crowd. He knows he couldn't bear that, so he merely waves from a distance and slopes off to the magic shop instead—

* * *

"My poor little firecracker," says her mother, stroking her hair, "When will you learn?"

It's a miracle she's this together so late in the afternoon, though her steady hands suggest she's had a drop or two of medicine already.

"He was taking our stuff, Mom," her younger self says, jerking her head away irritably and jolting her broken arm in the process. She swears loudly at the pain, causing some of the other occupants of the ER to glance over.

"We owed it to him, darlin'. I meant to tell you."

"Yeah, well, you didn't. So I hit him and then he hit me, and now I got a broken arm for my trouble and they'll probably send me back to the foster home to boot."

"I thought you liked it there?" her mother asks, confused, and Faith young and old hate her for a furious second more than anything else in the world—

* * *

It should be a steam-train standing at the platform, for that _Casablanca_ feel. Sadly, those locomotives are almost all gone after the swing of the Beeching Axe, replaced by dirty little diesels. Anyway, they are hardly Rick and Isla. Charlotte has no idea how he feels.

_What?_ thinks Faith, lost in Giles' thoughts for a moment again. She shakes her head as if that can clear it.

The young pair stand in the carriage door, Charlotte's face alight with excitement. "You be good, Rupert," she says, giving him a hug.

"You too," he replies, holding her tightly. "Send me lots of postcards."

"Oh, I will," she says, "Everywhere I go, I promise."

It's now or never. As they break apart he kisses her. He's so nervous he almost misses her mouth completely, hardly a passionate gesture, but enough. She stares at him like she's never seen him before as he withdraws back to the platform.

"I'll be thinking of you," he manages.

Charlotte smiles, brushing the spot where his lips met hers, unthinking. "Me too—"

* * *

Mrs Dormer is different. She doesn't just patch up her bloodied face when she returns from another pointless ruck with her deadbeat Dad; she teaches her how to block, how to roll, how to hit him where it hurts. It's too late to save her school career, but Mrs D. helps her with work for a high-school certificate in between drills, work-outs and radio-contesting.

It's weird _as_, far as Faith's concerned, but she's prepared to overlook a little eccentricity with a two-way radio in exchange for a foster carer who makes her feel like she can still be somebody. One day.

"How we doing, Faithy?" Mrs Dormer asks, as she breezes in from the shops.

The younger Faith looks up from the dining table where she's patiently struggling with a math exercise. She can't help it even now, counting the bulging bags and marvelling. All the food she could want, more than she could ever comfortably eat! It's still like a dream.

"Five by five, Mrs. D," she smiles—

* * *

He must have practised the movement a thousand times on the Academy dummies, but nothing can prepare him for that first moment of punching through skin, muscle and bone to drive the stake home.

_It's a demon,_ part of him whispers. Yet it wears the face of a man, and in that horrible breathless moment of kill or be killed he understands: nothing will ever be quite the same again.

There are tears on his face as the vampire explodes into dust. He realises he is shaking. Master Lassiter stands up from his hiding place behind the crypt and he hurriedly wipes his eyes on his sleeve, expecting reproach.

Instead the man's heavy hand falls on his shoulder, a reassuring weight. "It's ok laddie. Only the real psychopaths don't cry the first time. You did well—"

* * *

She's been dreaming of vampires for weeks. There's a lady in red who slashes at her throat; the handsome man whose face suddenly twists into a horrible mockery of his good looks. In her dreams she is the hunter; has always been nothing more than the thrill of the chase, nothing less than the finality of the kill.

When the vampire grabs her on the street, on her way home long after her curfew, she reacts instinctively. Muscle memory built through endless drills with Mrs Dormer and something else, something new from within, takes over. He is like a rag-doll in her hands. She sends him flying through a picket fence and picks up a piece of splintered wood, driving it deep into his chest as he struggles in the dirt.

He explodes into dust and her heart sings. _This_ is what she was made to do—

* * *

"I'm very sorry, Miss Lehane," says the doctor. He has kind eyes, but she's learned to hate these well-meaning professionals. They're all so busy being _sorry_ they never seem to do anything else. "If you'd like some time with her, by yourself?"

She should say yes. She should take this moment to apologise, perhaps. To say it's ok and that she forgives her mother all the wrongs. Make her peace.

"I, uh…" she struggles. Because she's not sorry. She's _angry. _Furious that the long road of her mother's spiralling addictions have led here, a hospital bed and a mess of wires and tubes to sustain the life of a hollow shell. That even the decision to shuffle off this mortal coil has been dodged, passed onto Faith like so many other responsibilities over the years.

Invisible, the older Faith tries to take the dying woman's hand in her place. Out of phase, she can touch the bed, the sheets that cover the broken body, but not the bruised fingers. Tears she couldn't cry the first time around spill down her face. "I'm sorry," she chokes; words only a grave-faced Giles will ever hear, "I forgive you."

Her mother can make no reply, other than the click and whir of the life-support machine_—_

* * *

The tears are still wet on her cheeks as they whirl through time and space. She gasps for air, not sure if the tightness in her chest is from their transit through the darkness or the emotion she carries from their last jump.

"Faith?"

"I'll be ok," she reassures, wiping her face, "Like you said, it's already happened, right?"

She looks up to see young Rupert right in front of her, tapping his fingers distractedly on the roof of a red car. He is older now, almost a man, and finally of a height with the Giles at her side. He wears his hair longer and has acquired a leather jacket. There's a whiff of try-hard about his ensemble, from the turned-up jeans to his carefully ruffled hair, but it works all the same.

She sniffs, forcing herself to focus on this new present. "Wow, look at you. What happened?"

He coughs. "What on earth do you mean?"

"New threads, better hair-cut, leather jacket… where should I start?"

"Oh. Well, I um, I had a girlfriend in the lower sixth. Alice. Very keen on-on making over my image somewhat."

Rupert has spotted whoever it is he's waiting for, waving to get someone's attention. Faith expects the mysterious Alice to make her entrance, but the tall brunette that rushes down the station steps is unmistakeably Charlotte. She throws her arms around Rupert in ecstatic greeting, dropping her small suitcase. He picks her up and spins her around, both laughing.

"Oh you're finally taller than me," she pouts as he puts her down, "It's not fair."

"How was your journey?"

"Beastly, of course. Gosh Rupert, I can't tell you how much I've been looking forward to this since I got home. And I have to say right now, I _love_ your new hair." She reaches up with easy familiarity to brush some out of his eyes. Her hand lingers too long on his face; smile turning impish as her fingers trace his cheek and come to rest on the corner of his mouth. The spot where, a year ago, he clumsily kissed her goodbye. "_Did_ you think about me?" she whispers.

"Every day," he replies, and kisses her.

It's not a chaste kiss this time around, and Faith finds her jaw has dropped open. She closes her mouth. "Poor Alice," she says, turning away from their heated embrace.

Giles has turned bright scarlet with embarrassment. "Yes, well, we weren't really that suited."

She glances back at the entwined teenagers, who show no sign of stopping any time soon, and tries to suppress the fleeting envy she feels. She has no first-love flashback they might drop in on, however embarrassing it would be, because she's never really been in love. Giles' childhood might have been almost as lonely and abusive as her own, but he will always have this moment over her.

Charlotte finally breaks the kiss; Faith has the feeling Rupert would cheerfully have spent the rest of his life lost in her embrace. He looks nervous, but she is still smiling like the proverbial cat. "So where are you taking me?"

He relaxes slightly. "There are rumours of a vampire nest near Clacton. Master Lassiter rang and said I should consider having a look. I mentioned you were back from your grand tour and he said you'd be an excellent companion."

"Companion, eh?" she says, raising her eyebrows, "I think you'll find _I'm_ the academy graduate here, which makes me your commanding officer."

"Of course, ma'am," he replies, deadpan, "Your orders?"

"Come here," she replies slyly, and pulls him close again for another kiss—

* * *

_S_omewhere between Chelmsford and Colchester he pulls off the main road into the woods, ostensibly to eat the sensible packed lunch he's bought for them in a pretty picnic spot. They make love for the first time on the bonnet of his red Cortina instead, sandwiches forgotten—

* * *

They emerge from the darkness to find the sun setting, a sky streaked with orange and pink. Faith doesn't do awkward, not when it comes to sex, but something in Giles' ashen face stops her from teasing him. They are somewhere new, a little farmhouse in the English countryside with an old fashioned vegetable patch and herb garden. At the end of the garden is a gnarled oak tree; in the dusk she can just make out Rupert and Charlotte curled up together at its roots.

"If you're looking for an excuse to ditch me, just come out and say it." Charlotte's voice, clearly irritated, carries the length of the garden. She is struggling to extricate herself from his lap.

"Charlotte," he replies quietly, "Don't be ridiculous. I can't remember a time when I wasn't in love with you. This summer has been the-the best of my life. I'm just saying, I understand if you…if you decide that this can't continue while you're at University and I'm, um, still at the Academy."

She stops struggling and settles back into his embrace. "You're the ridiculous one. I spent the last year travelling across most of Europe and I couldn't get you out of my head. What's a stuffy college town as distraction, compared to that?" She twists to kiss him hungrily for a moment. "Now, tell me more about how you've always been madly in love with me."

"I think that's a pretty good summary, to be honest." She punches him lightly on the arm, suppressing a giggle, and he winces exaggeratedly. "Ok, ok. Let me think…" He clears his throat theatrically. "I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off." He punctuates each stanza with a kiss. "I love you as certain dark things are to be loved. In secret. Between the shadow and the soul."

Faith turns away, suddenly aware of how deep her intrusion into the most private reaches of Giles' memory has become. Death and pain is something they share in their present, every day. As grotesque as filling in the details has been, she's always known they must also have been part of his past.

But this, this sweet and clumsy romance; she cannot reconcile this with her Giles. These are moments she knows he would have wished to take secret and silent to the grave—

* * *

Ticket barriers are always a frame to their time together. He should be used to the lurch of mingled excitement and fear seeing Charlotte's face on the other side always freights; yet still every time she takes his breath away. The station entrance is too busy for him to kiss her quite as thoroughly as he would like. He lets her lead him outside and away from the stream of commuters.

"Hello Scum," she teases, biting her lip.

"Hello Tab," he returns, and finally pulls her into his arms for that kiss—

* * *

"I hate this."

They are back at the farmhouse; in crisp winter frost now rather than the haze of summer's end. Charlotte looks much the same, but Faith can see that years that have passed in Rupert's broad shoulders and stubble.

"I know," Charlotte replies, her breath steaming in the cold air. "I do too. But it's my first posting. I can't exactly say no to the Council can I?"

He shrugs. "No. Doesn't seem that hard to me."

Her jaw hardens. "I'm not quitting. I've trained my whole life for this. If you want some girl you can settle down and play house with… Well, don't let the door hit you on your way out."

"You know that's not what I want."

"Isn't it?" She eyes him shrewdly. "We don't get to pick and chose our assignments and it's killing me that I won't see you so much this year, you _know _it is. But this is what being a Watcher is all _about_. Duty, sacrifice—"

He scoffs. "Now you sound like my father."

"Well, maybe he's got a point!" They are nose to nose now, her face flushed.

"Don't," he says curtly.

"No." She has lost her temper, and seems unable to hold back the diatribe. "You listen to me. I _know _what you've been up to Rupert, with that weird little Sutcliffe kid from Magdalen. Dark magic isn't going to make the demons go away. It's dangerous."

He shakes his head. "You don't know what you're talking about. Thomas is alright. He's not just a-a dabbler, he's a proper warlock. And I think he's got a good point about using the supernatural as an ally more in our fight. Maybe the Council isn't the only way to do something good in this world."

The high colour drains from her face and she takes a step back from him, aghast. "You don't mean that. You know it's not safe—"

"I_ don't_ know, though," he continues stubbornly, "I only know what the Council says is so. And maybe they want to hold onto power for themselves."

"I can't believe this… Rupert, please. This is a very dangerous path you're walking."

"I can handle myself," he says stubbornly, "You don't have to worry about me."

"Of course I do!" She grabs the lapels of his jacket, wanting to shake him in frustration. "I love you, you stupid man. I _love_ you—"

* * *

He misses her more than he ever thought possible. Every morning, when he checks his post in the Porters Lodge, to see if there's an envelope with an international stamp. In all the little places around Oxford that mark their personal history. She's everywhere and nowhere at once and he thinks it might just drive him mad. Only in those moments at the Magdalen set is he free of her. When Thom burns the herbs and suddenly he can see the death of stars in the smoke and hear the whisper of the growing universe. He feels the turn of the earth and tug of all that raw power beneath its skin; only _then_ does the ache disappear—

* * *

Something between them is broken. He doesn't want to admit it, and she doesn't want to be the first one to say it, but he can feel it in her tentative welcoming hug. She doesn't kiss him, doesn't take his hand as they walk in silence to the nearby teashop.

"You smell of magic," she shrugs, when he works up the courage to ask what's wrong. "You're just… suffused with it. It's overwhelming."

"Something that Simon taught you, is it? How to smell it on a practitioner?" The jealous, angry, words have torn themselves from his throat before he can stop them.

She frowns. "Maybe. Does it matter?"

"I dunno. Are you fucking him?"

"Good God! No. Of course I'm not. He's my commanding officer," she splutters, outraged. He can see it in her eyes though; the regret.

"You just _wish_ you were, then."

"I didn't come here to _fight_, Rupert—"

"No, just break my heart."

She slams her teacup down, earning herself reproachful glances from the other customers. Both of them are beyond caring. "That's not fair."

He puts down his own cup with more care. "You know what? I can't do this," he says, standing up, "I'll save you the trouble. I know we're finished. I'm grateful and everything, that you took the time to come and say it to me in person, but I've known since your letters stopped. Now…" He takes a deep, steadying breath. "Fuck off back to St Petersburg and give my worst regards to that prick you've replaced me with."

He ignores the gasps as he storms out onto the street. There is a savage pleasure somewhere in all this, an act of retribution for the pain she's made him live with for the last nine months.

"Rupert! Come back!" She has run out onto the street after him.

He turns, fixing the moment in his mind. Her face screwed up with anger. The smart coat that isn't her style and long hair he doesn't much care for. "Goodbye, Charlotte."


	11. Synchronicity V

They are inside a dusty shop. The general excess of dribbled candles, skulls and leather-bound tomes suggests it's not a typical store.

"G?"

He looks pale. She feels a little punch-drunk having been treated to the bittersweet highlights of his youthful romance; hard to imagine he's any better.

"We have to get out of here."

"I know," she replies, "But every time I ask _how_ we seem to get pitched into another flashback."

"No, there are things to come that… Worse things. The very worst."

She gives him a smile with no humour. "Yeah, and not all of them yours." She's waiting for Professor Worth to make his appearance, to watch herself cross the line from troubled teenager to murderer; not a prospect she relishes.

The bell over the shop door jangles and Rupert enters. He begins selecting merchandise with mechanical efficiency.

"Maybe… maybe one of the books here can help," Giles says, and she nods her agreement at this plan despite the feeling he's clutching at straws.

"We can touch the books, right? I guess in a magic shop people might not freak out so much if things start floating..." The shop's bell tinkles again, and her musings die on her lips. "Ethan?"

He can't hear her; his attention is caught by Rupert, lining up his purchases for the clerk to ring through the till. She plants herself in his path nonetheless and gasps as he simply walks through her, insubstantial as air.

"Are you alright?" Giles asks, catching her elbow as she reels.

"Fine," she manages after a moment. "Just… wicked weird. Damnit, for a second I thought…"

"I know. This is his past too, I'm afraid."

The young Ethan has crossed to the counter. "Looks like you're planning one _hell_ of a party."

Rupert turns to the stranger at his elbow, instantly suspicious. "What's it to you?"

"So blunt," the young warlock chides, "I was merely intrigued to find someone else around here with the power to conjure an _animus exstasis_. Forgive my intrusion."

"No, it's me… I'm sorry. I'm having a really terribly day but that's no excuse for being rude."

"Don't worry about it. I'm sure that _animus _will help a great deal, anyway." Ethan smiles and holds out his hand. "Ethan Rayne."

"Rupert Giles."

"Nice to meet you, Rupert. Are you a local practitioner?"

"Um," Rupert stumbles, "Well, I'm thinking of moving back to London."

"Really? This _could_ be a fortuitous meeting then. I have a friend who is rather desperately searching for someone to take over a bed-sit in Islington. She's in the craft too. I could introduce you, if you have the time?"

Faith could scream. Ethan is as trustworthy as a snake but she recognises the look in young Rupert's eyes. It's one she's worn often enough as she put her trust in the wrong people. It's all too easy to mistake the predator for a friend when they speak kindly, show an interest. Say the words you need but never hear from anyone else.

"Don't," she whispers, but she's more than twenty-five years late with that advice.

Rupert almost manages a smile. "I think I do, as it turns out."

"Excellent—

* * *

The meeting with Deirdre, the young woman looking to sub-let her bed-sit, turns into a beer. The beer becomes several, followed by more alcohol on a hazy crawl across London and a house party in the company of drunken strangers. He summons the _animus_ with a group of young punkish types and the next two days are an ecstatic blur. He doesn't need to eat, or to sleep, or think. He can't remember his own name let alone Charlotte's. When he finally comes back to himself, head pounding and sick as a dog, all he knows is he needs more, and Oxford can wait—

* * *

It's a shock to come out of the black and find herself back in FCI Stockton. Even more shocking is the tiny part of her that feels like she's suddenly come home. The walls of the dormitory are more than familiar; there is a strange comfort in what they kept out. In here she was just Lehane, or more rarely 43-100. There was no duty, and the only demons were the ones she bought in with her. The ones that kept her awake at night as stains on her conscience rather than horror made flesh.

She kept her head down, did as she was told. She didn't have to worry about food, or staying warm, or even what other people thought. Twenty-five to life for murder meant most people kept right out of her way. Aside from the occasional psycho with something to prove, life held no problem larger than how to not go mad with boredom.

Or guilt.

She remembers this day. It's early in her sentence. She's still in the oranges that mark her as a recent transfer, still in a bunk by herself rather than out in the dorms. The prison psych has her on antidepressants. Supposed to help with sleeping, they make her skin crawl and her stomach heave.

In her haste to make it out of bed and over to the sick bowl in time she knocks the mattress off her bunk. The shiv comes skittering out, a sharpened toothbrush so obvious she thinks it must be some kind of sick joke by the guards; a prank or maybe a test.

She picks it up. It isn't even that sharp, but she doesn't need it to be. Not with Slayer strength. The little voice is howling again, somewhere inside, calling for her to end this pathetic excuse of a life she's screwed up past the point of redemption. Twenty-five years inside here; what's the point in waiting to come out a shrivelled old has-been? Easier to end it now and leave a pretty corpse. Let some other girl be called in her place, a real ally for B rather than a useless crazy.

"Yeah," she says to herself, putting the thing down and retreating back to her bunk, "But when do I ever do things the easy way—"

* * *

"Come on Ripper," says Ethan, "You know you'll enjoy it." He is sitting cross-legged on a mattress, an island in the sea of debris that fills the bedsit, surely channelling the spirit of some Edwardian dandy in his velvet jacket.

"No one's called me that since school," Rupert replies. Lying on his back at Ethan's feet he is shirtless and smoking. There's a casual intimacy to their pose, something in the way Ethan looks down at the recumbent Rupert that makes Faith suddenly unsure whether they are simply the best of friends or something more.

"Rupert's simply too stuffy for you," Ethan decrees, "You've moved beyond Rupert."

Shockingly, Faith finds herself in agreement with this assessment. There is a lean, rangy look to this new Giles. The try-hard element of his bad-boy persona is gone; his insouciance uncultivated. She's loath to admit it, even to herself, but he's disturbingly similar in presentation to the kind of guy she's like to pick up in bars. More than anyone, he reminds her of Spike.

"Maybe. I'm still not coming out tonight," Ripper shrugs, stubbing out his cigarette. "That scene's getting old."

"I know you," Ethan says slyly, tapping a finger on Ripper's shoulder, "You say that now, but your ego won't stand for it. Ritchie will start shooting his mouth off about twocking some 9-11 and you'll have to go one better."

Ripper smiles at the thought. "Not sure what _would_ be better than a 9-11. Maybe an Aston. Maybe."

"Or we could stay here and invite the Coven round?"

He shakes his head. "Nah, I'm pretty hollowed out after Sunday's debacle. Not all of us have your kind of power, you know. I ain't giving myself an aneurism chasing fairies through dimensional portals."

"A shame."

"Oh?"

"I've an idea for a new kind of summoning. I need you to do a bit of translating, though. I'm not so hot on Etruscan—"

* * *

"Oi, what the bloody hell do you think you're doing? That's my motor!"

The owner of the car they're attempting to steal is running towards them, waving his fist. He is not a small man.

"Shit!" exhales Thom, dropping his screwdriver and taking off pell-mell down the street.

"Coward," breathes Ripper, stepping back from the car with his hands up in mockery of capture. "Looks like you got me guv," he drawls, "It's a fair cop, and all that."

The owner does not waste breath in response, drawing back his fist for a blow that could shatter bones. Ripper dances out of reach, wicked joy on his face. He is already lost in the euphoria of fighting, Faith can see, a feeling she knows only too well—

* * *

The bar smells of cigarette smoke and wet leather. She immediately picks out Ripper, lounging against the wall with his face arranged in a now-trademark sneer of insolence. She nudges Giles, who nods, taking in his former self with weary resignation.

The door opens and a very wet Ethan enters with a burly young man in tow. The rain has flattened the stranger's blonde Mohawk and made his dark eyeliner run. Ripper gives a nod just short of offensiveness in greeting.

"Fucking terrible weather," he says, casting an eye over the blonde boy. "What'd you bring this cunt here for?"

She almost laughs at the soft noise of disapproval Giles makes in his throat, embarrassed at the profanity of his past self.

In front of them Ritchie folds his impressive arms, raising an eyebrow. "Fuck off Ripper. You think you're so special."

Ripper bursts into peals of raucous laughter. "Best you could come up with is that, Ritchie?"

He has the wild look in his eyes again, the one he wears in the melee. She takes a step back without thinking, putting herself out of range as the Ripper squares up. Large as Ritchie is, the young Giles is taller. Combined with those mad-dog eyes, she isn't surprised the big punk backs off.

"Play nice, Ripper," says Ethan lazily, enjoying the show. "He owes me a drink."

"Oh? Be a dear and get me one too, then," Ripper orders, baring his teeth in a terrible smile.

Ethan raises an eyebrow. "I thought you might _want_ a reason to go to the bar. Isn't that Maria over there?"

Ripper's smile drains a little. "I hadn't noticed," he lies.

"Who's Maria?"

Ripper pulls a cigarette out of his pocket, accepting a light from Ethan before answering. "Just some bird," he says dismissively after taking a long drag.

"The blonde," says Ethan, with a nod in her direction. Faith picks her out instantly, big blue eyes in a pale face, staring at Ripper with an eerie intensity.

"That ain't Maria, anyway," continues Ripper, exhaling smoke, "That's her twin sister. Uh, whatshername. Katya."

"They're gymnasts," explains Ethan, "Here with the Moscow State circus."

"Trapezee artists," picks up Ripper, warming to their tale. Faith can't tell if this is some fantasy the boys are cooking up between themselves or the truth. "Very… flexible."

"No way," Ritchie spits, "No way would a bird like that have anything to do with either of you."

"They were Ripper's pull, mate," says Ethan mildly, "Nothing to do with me."

"You're telling me _you've_ shagged them _both_? Don't make me laugh." Ritchie's derisory tone is too strained. Faith can tell he believes Ripper might just have had his way with Russian twins; that the jealousy is eating him up inside.

She can't help but admire, in a dark way, how Ripper plays the moment. He blows smoke at Ritchie, grinning his shark's grin. "Well…not at the same time." He examines his cigarette. "Maybe I _will_ go get the beers."

She watches him, as Ethan and Ritchie do, strutting across the crowded bar as if he owns it. Katya moves like a snake to catch hold of him by the elbows. She presses herself against him as they talk; Faith can't hear the words but she knows exactly what's been said. The girl has no guile.

Her skin prickles. There's something in Katya's eagerness, the ways she clings to Ripper that makes her uneasy. Almost as if—

Her train of thought derails itself as Ripper suddenly kisses the young woman with an alarming ferocity.

"Oh for fuck's sake," mutters Ritchie.

Ripper breaks the kiss as abruptly as he started it, turning his back on Katya dramatically. For a moment there is rage on her beautiful face; anger that twists it and turns her quite, quite ugly.

_Vampire_, thinks Faith, even as the girl regains control of herself and pouts her sorrow at rejection.

"It's dead in here tonight," announces Ripper pointedly as he rejoins the group. He and Ethan exchange a loaded glance. "We're leaving."

"How do you know?"

"'Cos last time I kissed her, she had a fucking pulse," Ripper shoots back, "Don't ask stupid questions." He is rattled, and trying not to show it. "Come on, let's go down to the Ritzy or something."

"Do you pair always talk in code?" splutters Ritchie, "Anyway, the Ritzy's fucking miles away and it's pissing down. I'm staying put." His eyes have drifted back to Katya, who is now staring at them with naked hunger. Faith shudders, wondering how she could ever have mistaken the look for desire.

"Don't be daft, Ritchie," says Ethan, laying a conciliatory hand on his arm, "You're with me and Ripper tonight. Let's get out of here."

Ritchie pulls his arm away. "Get off me, you little queer," he snaps, "I said I'm staying put."

Ethan merely looks marvellously disdainful in response, but for a moment it seems like Ripper might tear the blonde punk in two, so dark is the rage clouding his face. He glances back at Katya, who is edging towards the trio. Something else flits into his expression; something horribly knowing.

"Suit your-fucking-self, then," he says. He takes pains to knock against Ritchie's shoulder, hard, as he storms out into the night. Ethan follows in his wake.


End file.
